


The Rebuilding of 221B Baker Street

by KimberlyAlexis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, First Kiss, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Happens actually right at the wrap up part of TFP, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, but also after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9435695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimberlyAlexis/pseuds/KimberlyAlexis
Summary: John and Sherlock lives together in John's flat while 221B is being rebuilt. They also rebuild something they both thought was long ago lost.****Takes place in the wrap-up scene of TFP and after as well. Missing Scene between the night post Sherrinford and when they finally get to move back into 221B and after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Rebuild**

 

Sherlock wanted to drive back. He didn't want a driver or a police escort. He needed it to be solely him and John until they reached London.  He would again be firmly in charge of their journey. He couldn't save John the torment of today, hell of the past month, but he could drive him safely home.

 

With each passing kilometer the stress eased a bit, just a bit. Their unspoken agreement to ride in silence lasting through each turn, change in direction, and new road.  Ever so often they shared a glance toward the other, but never spoke a word.  

 

Sherlock's mind was busy cataloging and deleting. He was calling upon established protocols to spare him further frustrations regarding the incident. He was also trying quite hard to not think about what would have happened if he hadn't gotten to John in time.  As they neared John’s home, Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder, adding a brief squeeze.  It would have to serve as voice to what he needed to say.

 

John gave him a tight smile and a nod. The familiar stormy blue eyes cast downward then turned back to the window without a word.

 

When Sherlock pulls up to John’s home and leaves the engine idling John ends the silence.  He opens the car door without a glance back.

 

“You’re staying with me,” he says and exits the vehicle.

 

Sherlock can't find the strength to feign an argument against it. He nods, turns off the engine, and pockets the keys.  Both men drag themselves slowly up the path with only John pausing to give a brief look around before picking up a fake rock, sliding out a key, and finally opening the front door. Sherlock smiles at the novelty, and does not mention the amount of break-ins that occurred because of such a device. Instead he follows John slowly inside, his eyes taking in so many details all at once.

 

He'd been here many times previously, even sleeping here once, but he hadn’t been allowed inside after Mary’s death.  He wasn't allowed to see or help John. Instead he was sent away with a letter whose words cut him more than he thought possible. The idea that John would likely never again want him in his life was intolerable. The fact that he'd come so close to losing it all tonight was painful. He shakes his head, waits for the protocols to come into place again. He can't dwell. Not now, not ever.

 

Sherlock takes cautious steps around, as if any minute now John might decide Sherlock wasn't allowed to walk where she walked, touch things she had touched.  The cloud of confusion settles over him even more now that he's here. Mary was his friend and John's wife, but there was always a mystery to her actions. The fact that her last one was to save his life after previously almost ending it is something he still cannot understand.

 

John flicks on a set of lights and walks up the stairs.  Sherlock closes the door, chains it, then turns to take in their now illuminated home.  He noticed Mary's presence didn't seem lessened.  A grocery list in her handwriting sat on the counter. Her red coat hanging bright as ever. Sherlock's eyes cut to the scotch bottle on the table. Barring the idea that John hadn't gone through an entire bottle,  the amount had decreased by 83% since the last time he was here. Then they'd shared a post-drink toast followed by a hazy game of charades. Sherlock hadn't faired well in the drinks department. At least not once it was paired with the muscle relaxant John slipped into his drink to make it easier to stitch Sherlock up.  Sherlock had woke early in the morn and left before both John and Mary saw him...Before he was required to see them. He never accepted a drink from John in this house again.

 

In the sink Sherlock sees the mug Mary favoured and her favourite cereal poured in a recently used bowl.  She was everywhere. Would John leave here eventually?  Like he left Baker after Sherlock died... No, Sherlock thinks, not the same. Not the same by far.

 

He hears John’s soft steps down the stairs and turns to see him holding a blanket and pillows.

 

“Don’t worry,” John says. “These are for me.”

 

“No, I couldn’t.” Sherlock has been through torture many times in the past including earlier tonight, but the idea of sleeping in the same bed that John and Mary shared...there are things with which even he cannot contend.

 

“It’s…” John begins to speak. He swallows down his words and looks away. He takes a breath. Sherlock waits for him. He knows whatever John is about to say is important and he's finding the right, true words.  “It’s been hard since she...so I don’t really sleep there much anyway...when I do sleep.” He ends with a sad smile, and doesn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes. “So you’re not really putting me out.”

 

With that he walks to the couch. He unfolds a sheet then a blanket. He adds the pillows at the far end. Sherlock doesn’t move.

 

John has made his case for why he’s not put out. And truth be told Sherlock feels his body will give in to exhaustion at some point. A bed would be nice, and John must know this. Yet he cannot, will not consent to this arrangement. As 221 B will be some time getting back to shape this will be for at least a fortnight.

 

Sherlock takes a step forward. A version of honesty on his tongue ready to save him. "It's just--"

 

“Or,” John turns to him. “This is actually a pullout.”  John reaches down underneath and tugs at two long pulls. He leans up and back and the sofa turns into a pull-out bed. He begins rearranging the bedclothes to cover the full size.

 

It’s spacious enough for the both of them. They’ve bunked up together before so it’s nothing new,and part of him appreciates the idea of being able to watch over John.

 

Everything with Eurus is settled, but he can't help but think there's something else coming from Moriarty. A fail safe in case Eurus didn't fulfill their agreement. This is a worry. Of course this doesn't even begin to speak of the ache he feels right now. It's a mixed bag of good and bad really, this set up.

 

John seems to take his reticence hard though. His jaw clenches. His hand follows shortly after. He loosens it but repeats the movement.

 

Sherlock slows the moment and weighs his options.

 

  1. Sleep in the same bed as John and possibilities are multi-fold of likely poor outcome
  2. Refuse and sleep in the same bed John shared with Mary and outcome is solidly poor.
  3. Refuse and go to a hotel and outcome is solidly poor.



 

Before John finishes his third clench and unclench Sherlock nods his head in acquiesce and begins to undress. He turns away from John and takes off the Belstaff first, divests the trousers next. Finally his shirt is unbuttoned and removed   He’s left in his boxers, waits for John to say something. The silence now is deafening, and he only hears his ragged breath.  John says nothing, makes no sound. He walks away and Sherlock slumps down to the bed, waits.

 

John could feel many things right now, but anger is not one Sherlock expected. Perhaps it's still connected to the unhappiness regarding Sherlock's two year absence. Still it’s better than the pity Sherlock feared.  That he could not take.

 

As John descends the stairs his gait is slow, changed. Somehow there is stress in him that wasn’t there before. Sherlock doesn’t turn towards him. The lights flicker off all around and John walks to him.

 

He tosses a tee gently to Sherlock. Sherlock knows this shirt actually. It's one of John’s almost threadbare shirts that he holds onto despite the fact that it probably should've been binned ages ago. The RAMC logo in the corner. Sherlock’s fingers trace the lettering as he hears John climb onto the bed and move underneath the covers.

 

Sherlock looks toward John. His back is to Sherlock. He’s obviously not asleep and his shoulders are tense, waiting. Sherlock slips on the shirt and tries not to focus on the feel of it on his skin. It’s such a light weight and yet it feels like an armor John has offered to him. Sherlock takes his place in the bed on his back and though he’s already warm he gets under the blankets as well. John doesn’t appear to be cold, but in case he is still feeling the chill of the water...well Sherlock can’t help but want to provide any heat he can, do anything he can to help ease him. After tonight John must feel renewed anger. Once again Sherlock’s life has brought pain to John's.

 

He knows John doesn’t need to hear what he could offer by way of apology. John, by his own words, no longer blames Sherlock for what happened with Mary. But Sherlock knows if he’d only, if he’d only.  

 

Norbury, he thinks to himself. He won’t ever forget. Despite the fact that John has forgiven him for that and even if Sherlock were to find a way to excuse his behaviour surrounding her death he cannot forgive what happened to John at Sherrinford.

 

Sherlock’s sister tortured them. He hadn’t planned on that. What had he planned on? He would see her and then what? What was his goal? And does he need to tell John his worries of what's coming next?

 

“Did it happen when you were away?” John asks after long minutes. Sherlock wars between saying the obvious about the scars or explaining how John is forcing him to say the obvious about them. But he’s aware the desire for either is simply a way to avoid the subject. He can't always offer honesty about his life, but in this instance he can.

 

“Yes,” he says. He holds his breath and waits.

 

“Sorry.” John says. He doesn’t elaborate beyond that. Sherlock is both grateful and frustrated. There is still a conversation to be had. He knows what it’s like when they hide things from each other. It never ends well. No matter which side it’s on.

 

John turns over in bed, face towards Sherlock now. Sherlock is still on his back looking up at the ceiling. He could turn to look at John, but he does not trust his face nor his emotions right now. They’re both out of his control.

 

John reaches out a hand and lays it on his shoulder and squeezes, mimicking the motion Sherlock made earlier.  But Sherlock isn’t stoic like John. He wants the reassuring touch. Sherlock reaches his hand to cover John’s. He takes a breath and waits. John doesn’t move or flinch back. Sherlock feels his heart break and rebuild. He can't ever lose the man next to him. He needs him more than he needs the next good case, or the feel of the drug coursing through his vein. Sherlock vows to always, always put John and Rosie first. He won't lose them. He can't.

 

Minutes roll by and neither moves their hands. Sherlock’s phone pings once, twice, three times then a few moments later it pings again. His parents. His mother always rapid fires out three texts each time. His father follows up with a sole addition.

 

“Want to check that?” John says, still unmoving.

 

“Mmm. No. My parents. Mother giving me her ETA for arrival, a reminder that I’m not required to meet them at the airport, and sending me her love. My father chiming in with the same information but in a sole text.”

 

“Ahh,” John smiles. Sherlock notices it out the corner of his eyes. He likes Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock never knew exactly why, but he enjoys the fact regardless. John removes his hand then. The warmth is immediately missed, but Sherlock tries not to focus on it. John turns to look at the ceiling along with Sherlock. “Jesus. They didn’t know.” He sighs.

 

Sherlock doesn’t know this to be a fact, but it seems likely. How they failed to mention her is not as odd as one would think. After he and John spoke about Mary the once he’s not brought her up since. John also does not mention his sister or other family either. A painful loss sometimes can be easier withstood with silence.  

 

“Ya know um, Mary always wanted a sister.” John says this casually. Sherlock doesn’t hear pain in his voice like before when John spoke her name.

 

“Eurus might’ve changed her mind on that.”

Sherlock responds matter of factly. John laughs. Sherlock smiles wide. The sound of John laughing is a balm whose efficacy cannot be measured.

 

“Maybe,” John says. “God what it would’ve been to get those two together though. That’d be something to see. Mm.”

 

“John, are you perhaps imagining your deceased wife and my criminally insane sister in a cat fight?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Please tell me there’s not mud involved.”

 

“Oh there’s an idea.”

 

“For God’s sake.”

 

John’s burst of laugh is bright before turning into a giggle. Appalling as it is, it’s infectious and Sherlock falls into silent laughter beside him. They somehow edge closer to each other as they giggle for a long minute.

 

“Are we ever going to talk about how I had a weird text affair with your sister?”

 

This stops the giggles from Sherlock. He shakes his head, but he begins speaking. “She became what she thought you wanted to gain your attention. A beautiful alluring lass who was soft and simple. The opposite to what your current life held.”

 

“Ahhh...right. Right. That's. Hmm. Right.”

 

Sherlock turns to John then. John is figuring something out. Sherlock narrows his eyes as he tries to figure it out too, but he comes up with nothing. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He huffs out a breath.

 

“Regardless,” Sherlock says. “Just as an FYI you’re not actually allowed to date my sister.”

 

“Same,” John says quickly. “Not that she’s your type. Not a dominatrix girlfriend.”

 

“For the last time I’m not…” Sherlock stops himself. Perhaps revealing this isn’t the best time. He changes his statement to “interested in a….” He doesn’t want to say romantic entanglements because that really isn’t true and repeating the lie will make it seem even more so. “Girlfriend.”

 

John says, “Ahh.” Then turns silent. A few moments later Sherlock notices his breath has evened out. He doesn’t move at all.  Asleep. Sherlock watches him sleep for a few moments before he allows himself this indulgence. He reaches out his hand to take John's pulse. Fingers sliding to John's wrist.  But John’s hand moves instead to intertwine their fingers. He tightens his hand around Sherlock’s, swipes the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's hand--once, twice, then doesn’t stir beyond that. Sherlock lets out a breath. He feels himself hope for just a moment and falls asleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_John is reading Mary’s letter. She's leaving him and Rosie to go on the run, to take the danger away from them. It’s a noble move in a way, but also incredibly selfish. John can’t help but feel anger at her actions. It’s a bit unfair , but he hates that it means she doesn’t feel he is capable of taking care of her. That he wouldn’t do everything in his power to keep her safe. This isn’t what they vowed to each other.  But then again he isn’t living up to his vows either. If she doesn’t come back then what would he do?_

_A week goes by and Sherlock sends him daily updates on Mary’s location. She’s still on the move. Sherlock advises him it isn’t time for them to travel yet, but be at the ready. Sherlock vows to bring Mary back home safe. He vows to keep her safe when she’s here. John thanks him and feels the warmth of knowing Sherlock will always work to help him. At least if it doesn't interfere with an interesting case._

_John visits Sherlock at 221B at the start of the second week of Mary's absence and they share a drink, a game of clue-do, and a conversation about how John is really doing._

 

 _“I’m, uh, alright.”_ _Sherlock’s eyebrow arches with a silent question. John is a bit too tipsy to lie so he continues.  "I don’t know what that means for me and her, but I’m alright.”_

 

_“If you need me to help with Rosie more...”_

 

_“No, no Mike and his wife are having a field day with her. She’s in good hands.”_

 

_“Good.” Sherlock takes a drink and doesn’t push further. This is something John has always appreciated from him. Regardless of Sherlock’s reasons, he only pushes John when it’s necessary. And now John just needs to have a drink and forget about his wife lying to him yet again. A ping goes off on Sherlock’s phone and he reads the text immediately. “She’ll likely be heading to Morocco soon. This is good. Near there I have contacts which I believe she shares.”_

 

_John has stopped breathing and isn’t quite sure what he wants to happen next._

 

_“Are you ready?”_

 

In the morning John wakes before Sherlock. Eyes blinking slowly as the light peaks in. He wrinkles his nose and tries to move his hand to scratch an itch, but finds his hand is intertwined. He opens his eyes fully to confirm who is in bed with him--Sherlock. A few warring feelings start to rear their head. He doesn’t remember doing this, wonders if it was him or Sherlock who took the other’s hand. It’s a loose grasp but the feeling is nice, grounding. A smile begins to form on his lips.

 

As he searches for the memory of last night other memories rush back to him all at once. The past twenty four hours, hell the past twenty four days. Mary, his wife, is dead. He is a widower.  Their daughter has no mother. Fuck.

He needs to ring Molly and check on Rosie. He needs to figure out just how the hell they go on from here. Can he do it alone? Raise a child? Christ no. It'll be impossible. He can almost immediately hear Mary’s voice in his head. ‘Course you can. You’ll do it because you have to.’

John closes his eyes and breathes. There is an ache still, one he doesn’t know if he’ll ever shake, knows it’s connected to unfinished conversations and unresolved plans. But there has been some growth. It's a small mercy that he doesn't see her like before, but she's still there in his mind, at the edge of his heart. And this is good. It's something he didn't expect. That he’d find that bit of healing so soon.

 

It’s not like when Sherlock died. John saw him for years after. Around every corner, in every crowd, and definitely at 221B. It was one of the reasons he had to leave. He’d come back to their flat and could almost see Sherlock sat looking at his microscope or reading in his chair. He’d have poor versions of their previous conversations with the non-existent Sherlock. And he always felt pained afterwards.

John turns his head toward the windows and takes a guess at the time. It’s possibly nearing seven or a little after. It's not as if he's a lot planned for today, but there is plenty to be done. First of which is he needs a long piss and to drink a very large cup of coffee.

He knows this means he’ll have to break the connection of their hands and it’s only then that he realises he’d been idly circling the pad of his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand.  He stops immediately, looks over to see if Sherlock had woken or noticed.

Right on cue a soft snore escapes from Sherlock. John smiles at him. Sherlock Holmes asleep is something quite special, quite human. Even if Sherlock sometimes isn’t.  

John’s bladder reminds him that needs must be met. He gives a sigh and wriggles his fingers loosening the tenuous grip.  Sherlock, who was quiet, calm a moment ago opens one eye and darts it around landing on John. He doesn’t ask, but John knows.

 

“Around 7,” John says around a yawn. “Maybe a little after.”

 

“Ahh,” Sherlock says and stretches a bit. He closes the one eye then snuggles closer to the pillow. A second later it seems he’s all but asleep.

 

Great, John thinks. The only drawback to the pullout is when you get up you're guaranteed to disturb the other person. John pulls down the blankets and starts to extricate himself. He stretches and turns over and there’s really no other option, so he climbs over Sherlock, tries not to wake him but as he’s climbing it becomes impossible.

 

Sherlock wakes and turns to lay on his back. John is all but directly atop him. His arms bracketing each side of Sherlock’s head, trying to remain up. The rest of his body is in a push-up stance to keep the distance.

 

Sherlock is soft, blinking his eyes open at John. God, John thinks, he could’ve lost him again. He really could have. Jesus. He wants to hug him but given how they’re currently maneuvered it would be more awkward than anything so John instead scrambles out of the bed, not paying attention to how careful he is. As he moves he accidentally brushes his leg against Sherlock’s quite hard… _WHAT?_ John takes a gulp, and stands.

 

“Sorry need the loo,”  John says quickly.

 

Sherlock sleepily nods, gives him a lazy smile, and closes his eyes again. John’s eyes pop a bit at what just happened then he scrambles away. His walk is a bit stiff, his mind reeling just a bit. It’s not that he’s never thought Sherlock would or could. But they’ve shared a bed a few times before and that’s never been a…problem. Not that it’s a problem. It’s not. It’s good!  _WHAT?_ He means. It’s good that Sherlock does feel. But John realises that means the woman and him surely must’ve then. Maybe they even still do.

 

John finishes relieving himself then he looks in the mirror as he washes his hands.  His jaw is clenched and his eyes are furious. He shakes his head. He’s no right. If she makes Sherlock happy...well the man has obviously been through enough in his life, he deserves it. John will try to encourage him even more. Maybe he can find her number and send her his...best wishes? Or maybe send a message to him and her and wait for them to show up and ...do whatever the hell it is they did before.  He decidedly tries to stop thinking about it. He brushes, washes, and gives a glance back up again at his reflection. Jaw still clenched, eyes still frustrated. He shakes his head. He doesn’t have to figure it all out now. There’s other things to do than think about Sherlock’s sex life. And what does that mean about….Jesus he can’t do this now.  A knock at the door startles him just a bit and he takes a step back.

 

“John,” Sherlock calls to him. “Do you mind?”

 

John opens the door. “Of course. Sorry I was taking so long.”

 

“S’fine,” Sherlock says as he brushes past John on his way in. John turns and leaves him to it.  

 

Today he’ll visit Molly and he wants to pick up Rosie, but knows he’ll need to impose on Molly even more. Mrs. Hudson is staying with her until they assess the damage at 221. They’ve both reassured him that they’re okay with helping for as long as he needs, as often as he wants. He hates that he needs the help, but there are still things to put in order.

He hears the shower begin running so John heads to the kitchen and takes down the coffee. He grinds the beans and starts the brew. He didn't do this before Mary. Before her he was good with a standard cup but she wouldn't stand for it. So out went the old coffee grounds and in came a grinder and new machine. At least it's not the French press method she preferred some days.

 

John reaches for her mug in the sink. It's silly, but using it feels like...he doesn't know. It's a connection he still needs for the time being. He takes down his own mug and rinses it out along with Mary’s, dries them off and waits for the brew to finish. He's dragging this morning and he knows why. Now there is hard work to do. Hard work he isn't ready to do. Now he needs to work out a schedule. Now he needs to look for full-time care for Rosie. Now he needs to maybe sell the house. Mary made sure he could afford it on his own, but does he want to stay here?

It's not as easy to cut ties and run like it was when Sherlock died. And ,yeah, that's another thing he needs to figure out. With a new, new therapist or no, he has to go back to Ella. She's confirmed to not be a secret member of the Holmes family and she knows him well enough. He’ll just have to say point blank that certain subjects are off limits. He never should have brought them up and they have to be let go. Other things to focus on now.

 

Sherlock comes in the kitchen still looking sleepy but also fully dressed. Despite the fact that he's wearing the clothes from a day before he looks immaculate.

 

“Plans for the day?” John asks and offers the mug. Sherlock’s eyes dart to John’s mouth as he takes a sip. Then Sherlock looks away, takes the mug, and his own answering drink of coffee before speaking.

 

“Parents. Telling them along with Mycroft.”

 

“Right,” John says. He doesn’t have much to add. He can’t imagine the discussion they’ll be having. He flashes back to the one his parents had with him after Harry came out. The horrifying idea that the neighbors would know seemed to be their parents chief concern. The next was what to do about it. The word “phase” was used more than once. The others were “therapy” and “fix her.” John had remained quiet as they spoke and waited until the very end to ask to be excused. He left the table then walked past Harry’s room. It was completely clean. His parents had kicked her out or she had left...he never figured out which was which, but she was gone and they didn’t talk for a long while after that. John feeling abandoned by her when he needed her the most, and he assumed Harry must’ve felt the same way.

 

“You?” Sherlock asks then leans on the counter. He’s still tired, John can see that clearly, but there is something nice about how Sherlock feels comfortable here. Comfortable enough to lean and sleep and be here with John. That he knows he’s welcome in John’s home.

 

John gives a half smile, but lets it fade quickly in case Sherlock picks up on it.

 

“Just Rosie. Going to see Molly and Mrs. Hudson. See about them keeping her a bit longer, at least until I figure out what to do about work and a few other things.”

 

“Ahh,” Sherlock says. There seems to be more, but he doesn’t say it and that’s fairly typical for him. Sherlock stretches a bit then stops abruptly.  It’s only then that John sees it. He seems injured.

 

“What’s wrong?” John says. He moves without thinking, sets his mug down, and reaches out to Sherlock’s shoulder which seems to be aching him.

 

“It's fine.”

 

“And you've never lied to me about being injured before have you?” It comes out more biting than he plans. Memories of the first night Sherlock came back running through John’s head. He was only hours back Sherlock had later told him. So he must’ve been hurt that night. The wounds were still fresh and he hadn't said a thing. John had attacked him three times. Unable to let go of his anger, hurt, and shame for not being smart enough to figure it all out earlier. “Sorry.” John takes a step back.

 

Sherlock watches him curious and John can't help but look away. He wriggles his nose and pretends to be hungry.

 

“Toast?” He says and turns to pop in two pieces.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees quickly and if that isn't a sign that something is wrong then John doesn't know what is, but he won't push. Not when Sherlock has already been through enough. Yes, they both have but today John knows Sherlock needs to be handled with a bit more care.

 

When the toast pops up a few moments later John takes out both pieces. He puts a healthy coating of jam on one and hands it to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock takes it and eats but doesn't take his eyes off John.

 

“Just if it gets worse will you tell me please?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says and turns to leave the room.

 

John follows him and sees him put on his coat and scarf as he heads towards the door. He feels like he needs to say something like ‘call me if you need me’ or maybe ask when Sherlock will be back but neither really is something they'd normally say so he just stands and waits.

Sherlock's hand is on the door and he turns back to look at John. His face is blank but he's biting his lip. He says nothing. He gives a nod and leaves. John lets his head fall back on the wall and he looks up at the ceiling. What he's feeling right now, he has truly no idea. It doesn't seem right whatever it is. He's getting confused between missing Mary and wanting to make things better for Sherlock. He's thinking about how he felt when Sherlock died. Things are getting jumbled up between need and want. He pitches his head forward then back towards the wall, a gentle but firm hit to try and knock some sense into him. Doesn't work. Of course, he thinks. If all it took to figure out his feelings for Sherlock was a knock to the head then John would've took up boxing ages ago.

 

John showers and shaves and dresses. He cleans the dishes in sink but leaves Mary's mug where she last left it, in the sink waiting for him to wash because it was his turn.

 

He gets ready to leave and as he steps across the threshold he takes a deep breath. His phone pings and he immediately pulls it out. One new message from Sherlock.

 

**Might be a bit late. SH**

 

John can't help but smile at the message. It's not something Sherlock normally does which just shows they're both affected. John stuck to the status quo and Sherlock, always surprising, did not.

 

 **‘Not a problem.’** John types back then debates adding the next line for a full minute before pressing send. **‘If you get back before too late I'll cook you up something.’**

 

 **I’d like that.- SH** Sherlock's reply comes quickly and John can't stop himself from beaming.

 

They say grief is lessening when you smile or laugh a bit more. John can't help but note all those moments have occurred because of Sherlock.

 

 **‘We should get wine. We both deserve a drink.’** John sends. It's actually true and a good excuse to get Sherlock off guard so John can look at his injury more.

 

**‘We deserve something a bit stronger than wine. I'll bring something.’**

 

John can't help but type back a smile. He knows Sherlock hates them but Sherlock has put a smile on his face and so he lets himself indulge.

 

 **:)** John sends

 

Sherlock's reply makes him smile even more.

 

**:) -SH**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The singer is David Bowie. <3

Sherlock hadn’t made it far down John's driveway before a black sedan pulled next to the kerb. He rolled his eyes, opened the door,  and slid onto the empty backseat. Sitting down with a thump he let out a sigh which he was sure would be ignored. It was.  
  
The soft leather, the hidden driver, the mysterious presence were always meant to tell a story. A story of power and sophistication paired with a mystery so deep there was never a need to question. But Sherlock always questioned, especially when the evidence seemed obvious.  
  
There were a few things Sherlock had decided in the past few months. One, he’d decided he wasn’t always in control, but even when he wasn’t he had to maintain focus to avoid mistakes. Two, he’d only reveal his hand when he was absolutely sure of the outcome. Three, sometimes he was allowed to go off script but only if it wouldn’t harm anyone but himself. His life was not his own to throw away, but it was his to live.  
  
As the car drove through the streets, turning this way and that he traded a few messages with John. It wasn't typical of him, he knew. But hidden beneath his embarrassment of the morning was a need to reach out, to keep the connection. Could not let John forget that he was there and would not leave. _Why?_

John and him were better. He was better. But the fracture that began even before Mary's death had remained, expanded. And he still was unsure how to repair it.  His visit to Ella remained fresh in his mind. Mary had given him instructions on how to save John, but Sherlock couldn't follow them without worrying he'd reveal too much, information that would cause John even more strife.  
_  
“I need to know what to do.”_

_“Do?”_

_“About John.”_

_"What do you mean?"_ _  
_  
_"He's hurting. I am not capable of removing that from him. But you've spent time with him, when...I--”_

_“When you faked your suicide in front of him?”_

_“Yes, that.”_

_“You must know I can’t tell you anything about my sessions with John.”_

_“And you must know that I will go to any lengths necessary for John Watson.”_

_“Yes, I do know that. So let’s talk about why you feel that way.”_

  
  
Sherlock typed out a quick message to Mycroft then cocked his head and looked toward the hidden driver.  
  
“I do have an appointment you know. How long will this take, Kate?”  
  
The partition rolled down revealing Kate, Irene Adler’s mistress, sitting in the driver’s seat. She smiled into the rear view mirror.  
  
“She won’t like that you didn’t think it was Mycroft.”  
  
“Yes, she will. Part of her game you know”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“It has to end.”  
  
Kate’s look betrays far more than Sherlock had expected.

“She knows. That’s why you’re coming to visit.”  
  
Once the car stops Sherlock estimates they’ve traveled approximately 11 kilometers. He sends this on to Mycroft as well. It’s not that he thinks Irene would harm him, but he can’t help but wonder about the subterfuge, the timing.

They’d last communicated days after his birthday. Sherlock was awaiting his next minder and kept focusing on hidden stash Wiggins previously kept behind the microwave. He hadn’t known if Mycroft’s minions or Mrs. Hudson had found it and he could no longer stop himself from wanting to at least know.  

Just as he stood the message from Irene came through and he needed the distraction. Calculating the risk of re-opening communication versus taking a hit was simple, obvious.  But a visit was never planned.  He hadn’t seen her since she’d sheltered him after the Swiss job.

"Here," Kate calls back to him.

Sherlock opens the door and steps out the car. He looks at the house before him and the many like it on either side.  He finds them all the same, right down to the smallest detail. No one would ever think Irene Adler, former royal mistress and dominatrix to the powerful, could ever be found here on this dreary street full of carbon copies of tedium. And he supposes that's the point.

Kate doesn't exit the vehicle, but instead turns off the engine and takes out her phone. Sherlock walks up the steps, reaches for the doorbell then decides she already knows he's here so he simply turns the door handle, which gives way immediately, and he enters.

Once inside the home, in contrast to the bland, formulaic outside, he sees a much different story.

"Opulent, but clean I like to call it," Irene says while scanning the room, her eyes landing on a few different works of art.

The splashes of color, expensive pieces are sparse but each makes a statement. Those who dwell here take style very seriously.

Sherlock says nothing. He watches her walk from one room into the next. She is wearing a long black gown but no shoes. Her hair is cascading around her face. And her lips are painted a dark, deep red. She also wears a necklace that upon first glance is a long, silver charm but Sherlock had seen it in use, hidden inside is a quick acting sleep drug that even the strongest of drug users would find it hard to fight. At least he did.

Irene passes him without a look then sits with her legs tucked under, lounges calmly on a large, grey couch. She pats the seat next to her. Sherlock does sit. Normally he'd parry by ignoring her suggestion and sitting far away from her, but he doesn't have time for the game and it's really unnecessary. Irene knows he can beat her. And Sherlock knows she can beat him. The score is 3-2 in her favor though.

Once he sits she moves closer to him. He smells the very faint perfume. Meant to be noticed only once one was very close thereby subconsciously alerting you are near to this person because you want to be close. But he didn't. It didn't work with him.

"I'm not going to try anything you know," she says.

"Your choice of jewelry says otherwise."

"Some protection is always warranted. Wouldn't you say?"

He would say that, but he wouldn't agree with her. He doesn't respond.

"I needed," she begins then unfolds and stands. She looks down at him. He's working to understand her game for standing when she interrupts his workflow. "I am here, or rather I brought you here to apologise.” He says nothing. She sighs, another bell to ring. “I knew about your sister and I could have warned you. I owed it to you, but didn't and for that I am sorry."

Sherlock works through how she knew-- Moriarty? No a guard. And she knew what he liked. Easy to get information about the one visitor she had. Records harder to find but not with Irene's skill. But she didn't tell Sherlock. Logical. She could use the information to her advantage one day. Maybe to illicit a favour or more from Mycroft or himself. He doesn't actually blame her for this. He doesn't say this to her because it feels obvious. He waits for more.

"We are settled here, at least for a bit." She sits back down next to him, closer than before. His guard is up. "I need your help to maintain this."

"No, you don't."

"No," she agrees quickly. "I don't. Not entirely. But it would be substantially easier than the alternative."

"So you bring me here to apologise and then ask for help you don't even need. I am busy. What do you want?"

"A second chance." She smiles then and it seems rather genuine. "Or well twenty second more like it. I want to live in London. I want to do my work and I don't want interference."

"We've other matters to worry about. You're free to scold for money or whatever it is you do."

"Sherlock, I had two options. Blackmail you or be honest. I'm trying the latter."

"No, you're dancing around the latter. Quit wasting my time. What is it you're hiding?"

"I planted Mary."

"What!?" Sherlock reacts greater than he wishes. He stands. He couldn't have missed that. Not after he'd gone over everything a thousand times, running through a thousand scenarios in his mind palace. He had considered it so many times. Who or what organization could have planted Mary in John's life. No one made sense and so he realized it was simply coincidence. But, of course, the universe is rarely so lazy. "Why?"

"For you really.” She gives a small, sad smile. “She'd sent out a SOS to all her trusted contacts. I wasn't one, but..."

"You knew one and what he liked."

"What SHE liked. I was entertaining her. Intercepted the request. She had passports and money. She just needed the right location, the right place to be close to the action yet removed enough. And I kept an eye on Doctor Watson. I was going to tell you when you came to me in Switzerland."

Sherlock can't stop the anger pouring out from him. If she had but said then so much would have been different. He would have come back earlier. He would've saved John and himself the pain. He would've said. He would’ve done.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I owed you a life. Sherlock, you were in pain. Already broken and tired. It's why I put you to sleep that night. The added anguish of knowing an assassin was with John Watson wouldn't help you."

"But I would have..." Sherlock stops himself. He doesn't need to say and she doesn't need to know.

But she seems to understand all the same.

"Oh," she says. Her eyes grow large and her face softens. He hates her for this. "Oh Sherlock I didn't..."

"Know what I liked?" He tries to joke. He fails as she decides to drop all facade. Her head tilts to the side. Her face does a thing. She is the most human he's ever seen her.

"I knew," she says.  "I just didn't think you did."

His mouth opens to reply, but he closes it. He feels laid bare in front of her and he just wants to go. To feel his regret in solace then decidedly ignore it. His face hardens.

"What do you want, Irene?"

"Jim took something from me as collateral to help. He was supposed to return it, but he went and killed himself and then it was sold, stolen, and God knows where. I want it back."

"What?"

"The Borgia Pearl."

"Boring."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But with it I’ll have everything I need and once it’s returned you'll be done with me for good. I promise to never contact you again." She stands, holds out her hand. "Deal?"

"The Borgia Pearl." He says aloud to her, but knows he's also saying it to himself. Once again it's come back around. The universe....rarely, very rarely. "I'll be in touch," Sherlock says then strides from the room and house.

 

***

 

Sherlock's mother and father are waiting for him to say what to do. It's up to him somehow. As if he is more capable than anyone else in this room. In all reality he considers the facts of the situation before speaking and comes up short. Then he thinks of what the bravest and most true man he knows would do and he finds a possible solution.

"I'll play for her."

"What do you mean dear boy?" His father asks. His mother sits silent and seems to weigh his announcement in hand. She looks down at her hands and he can almost imagine what she must be thinking. He walks over to her and crouches, takes her hands in his.

He says nothing. His mother reaches out a hand and ruffles his hair. He looks away, but smiles. He turns back and looks at his mother, his father and reaffirms.

"I'll play for her. When I was usi--" At this Mycroft clears his throat. "In my ..." He finds the true words and then he finds the right words. "Past. The music was always a connection. As I now know it came from her it only seems fair to give it back."

Both his mother and father smile at him. He stands. Mycroft's face is impassive, but he nods in acquiesce. It's something.

"Will you join us for dinner, Sherlock?" Sherlock's father asks, but he knows his mother is the true prompter.

"I have a prior commitment." Sherlock responds to his father, then Sherlock turns to look at his mother sharing a look with Mycroft. "What was that?"

"Nothing." "Nothing." Both his mother and Mycroft say at the same time. Sherlock's eyes narrow. He wouldn't normally ask, but the time for secrets in this family has to come to an end or at least a respite.

"What was that look?"

"It's nothing dear. You just run along to see John. Send him our love."  His mother has a smile on her face and it’s a wondrous change from mere moments ago. His father wears a similar look.  

"Right.” Sherlock is confused, but he does need to get going. He promised a bottle for John and he'll need to be there by half past or Mouse, the person whose taste is nonpareil in all things alcoholic beverages, will have closed shop and Sherlock isn't prepared to owe her another favor to keep it open late.

She never asks for anything practical. The first time she asked him to write her a poem, the last time she made him be a participant in her Yoga class. ‘To give the guys and girls a treat.’ He wasn’t prepared for what madness would be requested for another late visit.

His mother stands and hugs him. His father reaches out a hand and shakes it then pulls Sherlock in for a hug. Sherlock gives a glance back to Mycroft as he’s leaving.

His mother and Mycroft continue having a silent conversation to which Sherlock has not been invited and one he cannot read.  But as he leaves he does notice Mycroft working hard to suppress a roll of his eyes and his mother’s raise of a single eyebrow. His father simply smiles wide and large.

***

Luckily Mouse does not require him for any tedious deeds and lets him go quickly with for a bottle of 1983 Ballblair single malt scotch.  His driver doesn’t say anything and somehow doesn’t need direction as he takes him directly to John’s home.

Sherlock eases the door open and takes a step inside. He hears John moving about in the kitchen before he sees him. John has music on which Sherlock doesn’t recognize entirely, but he knows the singer, his voice. Seen him on posters at university and always found his music visceral. Sherlock takes a step inside holding the bottle close and rounds the corner to see John in the kitchen. A spatula in his hand he gives a stir to the fry up of meat and veg.

John is humming along and absentmindedly singing a word here and there. Sherlock can’t stop watching him. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt with jeans, socks but no shoes. The sleeves aren’t quite rolled up but the cuffs are undone and slack. A towel over his shoulder. The song changes and John walks over to the phone set on the dock and changes it to another. It’s actually one Sherlock recognises for some reason. He can’t quite find the connection in his mind, but he likes it. John turns around then and notices him standing there. Sherlock stares at him and John stares back. The moment lasts for only a few seconds. Sherlock looking into John’s eyes. John looking into Sherlock’s.  John swallows then looks away then back over to Sherlock.  Sherlock knows he can stop himself, but finds he doesn’t want to. He takes a long steps forward taking care only for a second to set the bottle down before embracing John. His coat almost enveloping his lower body. Sherlock holds him close and tight, almost collapses onto him, buries his face in John’s neck and he absolutely can’t move. John is here. John.

John appears only startled for half a second before he returns the embrace while holding onto the spatula. Sherlock feels no tension in his hug and it’s entirely different from the last time, though there is still the ever present thought that he is allowing himself this, taking and giving all at the same.

“Sherlock. Fuck,” John says. The spatula clatters then and John’s hold on him becomes even tighter. Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Just this. This is enough. “Sherlock, we….we have got to get our shit together.” John huffs out a laugh, but continues. “Because I can’t…I can’t do this without you.” Sherlock can’t help but disagree. John can do anything, he truly can. He simply doesn’t know it. “And I…I won’t let you do anything without me. Not again.”

"Let?" Sherlock says though there's a warmth in his voice. It seeps through though he's trying hard to be perturbed at the implication. 

 

"Yes," John says firm. Sherlock feels John’s body tense a bit, back more straight. "That's an order."

 

Sherlock holds him a bit tighter for many reasons, says nothing. He can hear the sizzle of the stir fry. The music plays on and then changes. The few lyrics he catches are not inaccurate. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Okay?” John prompts. And Sherlock knows he is not wrong that he hears a catch in John’s throat as he repeats the word. “Okay? Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock can’t trust himself with words. He nods furiously into John’s neck which somehow causes John to laugh. And Sherlock laughs because he then realises his hair must be tickling John. John gives one final squeeze then lets go. Sherlock takes a step back.

They stand and smile at each other with no other words uttered for a long minute. Forgiveness and acceptance written on each other's face.  Sherlock isn't sure what else he could say now. John seems to have something to say, but licks his lips instead. Sherlock chews at his own lips.

 

"Dinner?" John asks. 

 

"Starving," Sherlock says. 


	4. Chapter 4

They sit across from each other and share the meal, deciding to save the bottle for an after dinner drink. Unlike their old days they don't have Mrs. Hudson’s cakes for after. A fact Sherlock states with a slight pout.  Also in contrast to their past, Sherlock actually eats his meal. John smiles at nearly every rise of Sherlock's fork. It’s still such a rare sight, and one John hasn’t seen for some time. Not like this.

“What?” Sherlock finally asks as he takes a last bite, a curious look on his face.

“Nothing,” John says quickly, and tries to focus on his own plate. He takes a bite to divert the attention away. Sherlock mercifully lets it go.   

Once dinner is over John starts doing the washing up when Molly calls with Rosie in hand ready to say their good nights. John stands in the kitchen smiling bright as Molly positions the phone to focus on Rosie in her little bassinet.  Molly recounts Rosie’s day and Mrs. Hudson chimes in with various adorable things their little girl has done. They, like John, agree pretty much everything Rosie does is adorable.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson then ask to speak to Sherlock because they're both quite sure Molly's new neighbor is an international drug smuggler or at the very least some type of ne'er–do–well. Sherlock doesn't ignore them and asks for the details.

 

He leans on the counter as John turns towards the dishes with a mind to finish them all. He keeps an ear on the conversation but finds his mind wondering if this is how it will be from here on out. Not with Rosie over Molly’s mind. But sometimes. Maybe with Mrs. Hudson helping out when they'd get a case that requires immediate attention.

 

Today he’d interviewed a few good child minders and was sure he’d found just the one. Open schedule she said. She knows CPR and all the like. She’s a nurse and also a self-professed ‘hippie’ and John likes that a bit. A different influence on Rosie. He immediately likes the woman, but he isn’t confused by who he is nor his life.  So he texts her name to Greg for a full background check then for good measure texts it to Mycroft so he won’t have to worry about her being a second cousin to the Holmes.

 

As Sherlock asks Molly and Mrs. H for more information he begins walking around and listening. He sets John’s phone on the counter and steeples his hands, paces. John continues with the dishes, soaping them up and enjoying this, just this.

Earlier when Sherlock had come in he looked so...John can’t describe it. He looked like he’d come back from war. John had seen that look before but never in Sherlock, or maybe...maybe he just never let himself see that look on Sherlock’s face. The man who wasn’t a hero or indestructible, who was human, who was his friend, who was….the person in his life who was willing to go to hell for John Watson. Even if it's with the smallest hope that John would be there to help find a way back. God Sherlock.

 

He needs Sherlock in his life and he isn’t going to let Sherlock ever do anything without him again. Sherlock took the first step forward and hugged him and John didn’t want to let him go. John nods to himself. He knows they will. They really will get their shit together. Whatever the hell they’ve been dancing around or trying to understand. Now was the bloody time to do it because John now knows no matter what happened in their lives as long as they have each other then they’ll figure it out.

John finishes the last of the dishes including Mary’s cup.  He reaches to take it out the sink, but his hand stills. He looks back to see Sherlock listening to Molly and Mrs. Hudson. John heard him ask about the man’s paper delivery, but Sherlock is also looking at John. John turns back to the mug and moves his hand away from the sink. He clenches his hand just once, looks down at the mug left in place then turns around to Sherlock. He doesn’t quite meet his eyes at first then makes himself look up.

 

He mimes pouring a drink into a cup. Sherlock nods at him and silently mouths ‘double.’  John gives a tight smile and reaches for two large glasses.

 

"Well that could be something, could be.” Sherlock picks up the phone from the counter. “Pay attention to what he wears tomorrow and text me exactly which of the tyres on his car seems the most worn.” Sherlock then motions John to come over.  “Kiss Rosie goodnight for us both. We'll check in tomorrow morning."

 

Just as John leans in to say goodbye he sees Mrs. Hudson smile bright at Sherlock’s words. "Alright dear," she says, but nothing more.

 

Molly looks astonished, appears stunned for a moment before she blinks, nods, then speaks. "Good. That’s good. Okay. Right. Night John.  Sherlock, we're on the case."

Sherlock doesn’t appear to notice, his mind seems focused elsewhere. John waves a final goodbye and they all disconnect. Sherlock hands John his phone and in exchange John places a glass of the very lovely smelling scotch in Sherlock's hands. They both take a sip of the drink and look at one another.

 

John’s eyes rove over Sherlock, to his neck. They land momentarily on his shoulder, wonders if it’s okay now.  He tries to look away, but he knows he's been caught.

 

"It's fine," Sherlock says quickly.

 

"Doctor now are you?"

 

"No," Sherlock says. "But I know my body and its limits."

 

"I know your body too," John says and immediately wants to take it back. It shouldn't sound like innuendo, but it does. Not something Sherlock picks up typically but he doesn’t respond immediately. He takes another drink before speaking.

 

"As you may remember I took myself to the brink of death recently. I know what I can handle. It's just...twinged a bit." Sherlock takes another sip. John does too.

 

"Twinged? Official medical terminology that?"

 

Sherlock laughs. John smiles bright at the response. He takes another answering drink and lets himself feel it. He relaxes and decides to let it go.  He was supposed to wait until Sherlock had drank more before he even brought this up. After all Sherlock hadn't mentioned it or held himself since this morning. It could be fine.

 

John gives a yawn. He looks to the couch, tries to shake it off, but he truly is tired. And this is the first evening in a long time where he actually wants to crawl into bed and sleep, dream. He’d happily let the sleep take over him as he now has a bit of hope that he’ll be able to wake up and do this the next day and the next and so on. But it's still early yet and it seems incredibly odd to say let's make the bed, sit on it, watch telly, and drink. Though, truth be told, it sounds like the best possible end to the day.

 

He's warring with himself about possibly suggesting it, looking at the sofa and worrying his lip when Sherlock takes off his jacket and then starts unbuttoning his cuffs.

 

"Can I borrow a shirt again?"  He asks.

John stares back to him for a moment, meets his eyes but doesn’t speak. A small smile forms on his lips. It’s not the first time Sherlock's read John's mind and yet there is something warm and comforting about him reading it here and now. After many months of being out of sync to know Sherlock has not only had a peak inside but also understood and took action is a salve, a hope.

 

"Yeah," John says. "Yeah. I'll get one for you."

 

He turns with a quick step, stops to top off his and Sherlock’s drink and heads upstairs. He goes to the closet, decidedly ignores Mary's things that he can't begin to consider getting rid of yet and goes to the back of his closet. He pulls out some t-shirts. He finds one that he hasn't worn for years and can't help but wonder what Sherlock would think of it. Or if he'll even register what the shirt means.

 

He walks downstairs with shirt in hand and stops by the bathroom first, has a piss, washes his hands, brushes his teeth. He’s in the middle of applying just a touch of aftershave when he realises what he’s doing. This was his routine when he thought he might…share his bed, if you will. He stops himself and looks in the mirror. Jesus it’s not like that. He means. The thing is…he’s not. Well he obviously is sometimes. But it’s not been that way with Sherlock, no matter what anyone, including Mary suggested as early as their third date.

 

John was still just a bit more broken that he'd have liked to admit.  Greg had done him the pleasure of stopping by and dropping off the birthday DVD of Sherlock and he couldn’t stop himself from watching. Try as he might.  By the end of it playing he was a bit of a mess. Just kind of wishing things were different somehow.

 

Mary and he’d made a date for that night. The pivotal third with the guise of just hanging out to ‘watch movies’ when all he’d really planned was a forgotten set of dvds, a bottle of wine, and hopefully a few well used bodies and hours. But she rang the doorbell and when he answered it was obvious he wasn’t okay.

 

Still she invited herself inside, saw the dvd, and pressed play. She looked at Sherlock on screen and asked what kind of movie John was watching. When she looked back at his face there was no way he could hide it. The video came to an end and he began talking.

 

Hours later she had heard it all. The whole of it that he’d kept inside for so long. Tried to make a joke about how they weren’t in a relationship no matter what people said. He laughed. She didn’t.

_“It doesn’t matter who you are, love. If you cared about him and wanted more. It’s fine.”_

_“No. I—I just. Never mind. This was supposed to be a film night right? Let’s put something on.”_

_“Mmm. Alright John Watson. But--.”_

_“Please Mary?”_

_“Okay.”_

She let it go that night and didn’t really bring it up again. She was there for him and helped him and fuck how dare he even consider moving on. Jesus. What kind of asshole is he?  And with? What is he trying to force on Sherlock? Sherlock _isn't_ that way. Fuck. He can’t breathe. He can’t bloody breathe. He stumbles back, tries to keep his balance.

A knock at the door startles him far more than it should. His heart is jumping through his chest. He can't quite find the air to speak.

“John?”

He tries to calm himself. He knows Sherlock will know something is wrong based on how he sounds. He takes deep breathes, uses his hand exercises to focus. Release and hold, release and hold. Release and hold. It’s fine. It’s FINE.

“Yeah,” he says, but he hears it. Strained voice. Thinks of an excuse. “Have a bit of a migraine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “Do you want me to get rid of your drink?”

“No!” He tries again because God knows he’ll need that drink when he comes out. “No, I took some medicine. It’ll settle me in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” he says. John hears the retreating steps and calms a bit. Takes a few moments to breath and mentally reminds himself he has to set up a new appointment with Ella soon. He stands, washes his hands again and walks out slowly.

 

He finds Sherlock sat at the corner of the already made pull-out bed. The pillows are arranged along with the covers. Sherlock has pulled the end table next to the bed and set atop is their glasses along with the bottle.  Sherlock stands once he notices John. He takes a step near him, but says nothing. He looks down at the shirt in John’s hand.

John’s eyes are fixed, focused though. He can only see the scar on Sherlock’s chest. The memory of what happened then and he can’t help thinking about the scars on Sherlock’s back. The man is wounded through and through and ,God, if John had just been better, somehow he could’ve stopped so much of it.

Without thought he reaches out his hand to touch Sherlock’s chest, covers up the scar entirely. Wishes it wasn't there.  Sherlock takes a breath then covers John’s hand with his own, looks into John’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. He takes a step closer to John. “Are you?”

John can’t dislodge the words from his throat. He just nods then looks towards the bed.

Sherlock nods in return then gently eases the shirt from John’s hands. It's only then that John realises he'd been clutching it tight. Sherlock slips on the shirt, looks down at the figure on the front. No recognition appears on his face and John finds that to be a damn shame. He’ll make plans to educate Sherlock about the brilliant Ziggy Stardust.

Sherlock slides into the bed to the nearest side, legs up. John slides in as well to the far side by the table Sherlock had pulled close. He takes his drink from the table and hands Sherlock his.

It's a bit awkward once they're sat on the bed. John isn't sure what to say so he turns towards the window then back to Sherlock.

“Telly?”

“Okay.”

John reaches into the drawer and takes out the remote, turns on the TV. There’s a few different things he could stop on, but Sherlock doesn’t seem interested in any of them. He sits stiff in his corner away from John. He seems uninterested, bored. His fingers seem to twitch towards his phone sat on the bed between them, but he doesn’t reach for it.

 

He takes another drink, looks over at John, then back down at the bed. If John didn’t know any better he’d say he was nervous and that somehow eases him.

“Alright?” John asks.

“Oh, yes, yes,” Sherlock says. But he doesn’t say anything else. He takes another sip.

John, sits back and lets the channel remain on whatever is playing and keeps the sound low. He riffles in the drawer and picks up a deck of cards. He tosses them towards Sherlock.

“Game?”

***

“God why can’t you get this game?” John laughs and giggles and laughs some more. Sherlock is staring down at the cards with the most amazing look of confusion and John loves it.

“It makes no sense! You’re saying the diamonds and hearts equal two points, but only if followed by a face card but then double if it’s a Queen and also I can get a second deal of cards if I remember to take a drink after counting to the number of cards in your hand?”

“Yes!” John laughs. “It’s not so complicated.” He delves into a fit of giggles.

They’ve been at this for about an hour and Sherlock is no closer to figuring out the rules of the overly complicated game that John and his bunkmates created over a few months during his last campaign in Afghanistan. They’d created it to be so utterly complicated as to last through a long night of patrol.

“It’s ridiculous,” Sherlock says around a giggle and he lifts his drink to his mouth and sips a bit of his drink.

“Maybe, maybe you’re too drunk to understand.”

“If you can understand it then I should be an expert.”

John laughs and takes Sherlock’s drink out of his hand and finishes off the glass. He looks over at the bottle. It’s not entirely gone, but they’ve made a hell of a dent in it.

“You’d think that,” John says. “And yet.” John waves his hand to the cards and to Sherlock who is staring at the hand before him with a confused look.

“It’s okay. It’s kind of….cute that you’ve been thwarted by our silly card game.”

“I am not…cute,” Sherlock says. “Just explain it again.”

“No, I give up. I give up. Besides I’m probably not going to last much longer. Can barely keep my eyes open. And you—“ John yawns.

“I am perfectly fine.” Sherlock catches John’s yawn and holds his much longer.

John sways to the side and laughs at him, looks over at Sherlock still trying to figure it out.

“I’ll teach you in the morning. Promise.” John reaches out a hand to take Sherlock’s card and starts gathering up the others. “We should drink some water before bed. Mind getting us some and I’ll fix up the covers a bit?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says and unfolds himself and walks to the kitchen. John watches him go. He seems regal in the t-shirt and a pair of John’s never worn silky boxers. He’d bought them on a whim and Sherlock is a fuckin sight in them. Hell he’s a sight in anything, in nothing even. But John is feeling something he shouldn’t be feeling right now. He firmly tells himself that he’s not allowed even one more sip tonight and he’ll keep himself far away from Sherlock as possible.

John puts the cards away, turns the tv off. He pulls down the covers and slips in. Sherlock comes back a second later with two glasses of water in hand and hands one to John who downs it and puts the glass on the small table. Sherlock drinks his as well while holding eye contact with John.

John tells himself to look away as Sherlock drinks it down, but he happily dazes at Sherlock’s bobbing adam’s apple, his lips, his cheekbones. Fuckin hell.

Sherlock finishes his water then hands the cup to John who sits it besides his.

“Wanna get that light?” John asks and Sherlock does. He reaches over nimbly, gracefully somehow and flicks it off. The t-shirt eases up just a bit revealing Sherlock’s abs and the small patch of hair that trails down to. _No. Stop._

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed. John slides further down under the covers, lets his head get comfy on the pillow. He tells himself to turn away, face the wall, but he turns to look at Sherlock. And Sherlock turns to look at him.

There is only the light from the outside hitting Sherlock’s cheekbones and angles and John just fuckin wants, can't stop himself. He moves a little closer towards Sherlock who is staring,nearly unblinking at him. Fuck. This isn’t the fuckin right time and yet he can’t stop himself. He clears his throat.

“Sherlock, I-”

“Irene contacted me today.”

“What?”

“She’s here in London.” Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes, and John hates him for it. “She wants my help on a case. She…told me things. I’m not sure if I should tell you about….”

“About you?!” John’s voice is twinged with hurt, anger and he’s not sober enough to keep his voice level.

“About Mary.”

The information hits him like a load of bricks. He can’t do this now. He can’t imagine how Irene Adler has information on Mary and he doesn’t want to know if it gets worse, and lately that’s all it does is get worse.

“Just….” John wants to say don’t tell me, but that really isn’t the best way. Maybe if he’d read the hard drive. Maybe if he hadn’t buried his head in the sand earlier then things could’ve been different. John lays on his back, looks away from Sherlock, up at the ceiling. He takes a breath. “Tell me.”

“Mary needed a location to hide. Irene told her about you, helped place her here.” Sherlock says this quick then pauses.  “I—I feel this doesn’t change that she fell in love with you, built a life with you, but the initial reason for her being here…..it wasn’t quite a coincidence.”

“Oh,” John says.  He remains silent for a moment then he laughs. And laughs some more. He turns to look at Sherlock who seems thoroughly confused and he can’t help but laugh even more at that. “It’s just.” He laughs more. “I kinda’ figured that out a while ago.”

“You..figured that out?” Sherlock repeats. “How?”

“Sherlock, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. An ex-assassin just happens to take a nursing gig at Sherlock Holmes’s friend’s practice. Yeah it wasn’t an accident.”

“Oh, I suppose…” Sherlock blinks and gives him a small smile. “I never thought you’d think of it like that.”

“I didn’t…well not at first. But well I thought about things…when you know when she shot you. And there was a drive and blackmail. So I sat down and gave it a good think.”

“John, I’m so-”

“No. Stop. There’s nothing to be sorry about. Look I don’t think it’s an accident she wound up here, but everything else after...I think it was real for her. At least—” John sighs. “I hope it was. I mean. I think. There was the passports, but also she seemed to really want...And I think she did. I don't know. I’m a bit drunk and she wasn’t quite simple was she?”

“Oh you mean like how she shot me and then saved my life?”

A giggle escapes from John. And he knows this really isn’t a giggle moment and yet he falls into them.

“Yeah like that.”

Sherlock laughs too and sighs.

“I don’t think we really attract the simple ones.”

“No,” John turns back to look at Sherlock. “I don’t think we do.” John sighs. “What else did you do today?” John bites down on his tongue and doesn’t add ‘who else?’

“I started looking for the Borgia Pearl. Irene wants it back.”

“Back?”

“It’s hers apparently and the payment of its return to her will buy her absence from my…affairs.”

John sniffs. “Isn’t she part of your affairs?”

“For God’s sake, John…”

“Fine, fine. Forget I said anything.  So you’ll be finding the pearl for her now?”

“I’ll try.”  Sherlock shifts. “The flat will take about a fortnight with Mycroft’s people working round the clock to repair the damage.”

“Ahh,” John says. “That’s not too long.”

“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“Mm. No,” he says. Nothing else. He is feeling the day ease away from him, the drink is lulling him to sleep. He feels warm on the inside and out. Sherlock didn’t keep Irene from him and he is here, telling John the truth. Sherlock isn’t hiding anything anymore.  John reaches out a hand toward him, ignores the part of his mind that’s saying this isn’t right. He takes Sherlock’s hand in his and holds it, idly runs a thumb back and forth over Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock eases himself down a bit closer to John than he expects but it’s good, it’s really good. John keeps up the motion and it lulls him further to sleep when he already wants to drop off. They could be okay. This could be enough.

 

He thinks of washing dishes and Sherlock hearing about cases, running off to solve crimes, and drinks and calm nights in bed with complicated card games.  John thinks of coffee in the morning and kisses on forehead as Sherlock looks into a microscope and barely notices he’s there. He’s almost asleep and finding himself feeling some hope for the future, a complicated future, but also one so obviously written for him, the road clear.

“John,” Sherlock calls his name.

“Hmm?” John answers but he doesn’t have the strength to even open his eyes.  His relaxes back to almost sleep. Sherlock says nothing else.

As he falls asleep he is almost sure he hears Sherlock say, “I’m here.”

John mumbles, “I know.” And he lets himself fall deep into slumber.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. I hope you enjoy the chapter. This work is now complete. Thank you.

John takes Sherlock’s hand and his reaction is immediate. He’s completely and totally lost. The touch of John’s hand, the tight hold. John begins the same calming motion as a few days ago, swiping his thumb back and forth over Sherlock’s hand. But unlike a few days ago this isn’t a tenuous grasp as he’s falling asleep. This time it’s deliberate. Sherlock knows this action has words behind it, but he doesn’t know what they are. Still John is pulling him towards his body and he allows himself down. He edges ever closer to John. John’s eyes close, his breathing steadies. Asleep. Sherlock lets out a breath and watches him. God John.

 

The scotch was nice and should have lulled him, but he’s in John’s bed and John deliberately took his hand. No part of his mind or body isn't focused on this and trying to understand what it means.

 

Outside of criminal motivations he isn’t especially well versed in romantic entanglements or relationships and emotion. Sentiment. Yes. He admits it now. It's part of him and as long as he learns to control it, to structure it within his makeup then he should still be able to function as normal. He will still have the cases and maybe he will also have this.

 

The minutes tick by and he knows this should be especially boring, tedious even and yet he can't quite find it as such. He allows his eyes to close and enjoys this for what it is. Maybe this is all they're meant to be to each other, but it's more than he ever expected and this is good.

 

Still he wants though he knows it's not okay. John is still dealing with the loss of his wife and also John has often pointed out he's not...that many times before. Still Sherlock remembers a conversation long ago in an abandoned building when the woman said they were a couple and John's response was one of...acceptance? Resignation? Frustration? Truth be told he imagines anyone who could care for him in any fashion must feel all of those and more on most days.

 

Tonight was a repair and renewal and something even more. But there’s a connection still missing, words still unsaid.

 

John is apparently having a nightmare. The motion behind his eyelids is rapid. He tosses his head to the side. His brow furrows.

 

“John?” Sherlock calls.

 

He doesn't wake but responds with a soft “hmm.”

 

“I'm here,” Sherlock says. He hopes that's enough. In the dead of the night when he was captured and tortured for weeks the John of his mind would walk around each room of his palace and say just that to Sherlock. That calmed him more than any meditation or drug, at least more than the ones he had on hand.

 

A small smile creases John's lips and he's okay it seems.  The dream must change because he breathes steady and his lips part. Sherlock doesn't let himself think about these things often. He doesn't dwell or indulge. He doesn't fantasize or imagine. Not often. But right now he wonders about the possibility of being allowed to feel as he does.

 

John shifts closer to Sherlock and Sherlock imagines he must be dreaming. The phrases "you're here" and "you're back" slip from John's lips. Though his eyes don't open. John is still on his side shifted towards Sherlock. He reaches out a hand to Sherlock’s waist and pulls him near, takes in a breath and repeats. "You came back."

 

This breaks Sherlock's heart a thousand times over. He can only imagine that John is dreaming of Mary. He isn't sure what to do. Does he wake John from what must be a happy dream or does he withstand the torment of the situation.

 

Before he can decide John maneuvers Sherlock closer. He can smell the alcohol present on his breath. It's both sweet and sour and reminds Sherlock of why John may be dreaming more heavily.  John's hands drift south and take in a handful of Sherlock's backside. The grip is incredibly intoxicating to Sherlock and try as he might to stop it. He lets out a small sound of contentment. To be touched by John is something he never felt possible even in the most amazing of circumstances.  

 

Sherlock thinks back to the first night he wanted this and how he realised it was an impossibility then. He tries to shake his head and remind himself that it is still an impossibility. He is not who John is reaching out to touch, to want. It’s Mary. She is still here in the room. He thinks of the cup remaining in the sink. She is still in John’s heart. He thinks of the words uttered moments ago. As John just said...she is “here.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t have time to dwell on this further as John’s upper body moves that much closer to Sherlock then his lower half  thrusts forward.  Sherlock's body is alight. A harsh breath is forced from his lungs. He feels his body respond quickly. He has to stop this. He has to. He tries to take a calming breath and get under control, but John's lips travel and find their way onto Sherlock's neck. He lays a gentle kiss there which breaks Sherlock. His eyes sting with the thought of what he cannot have. He cannot continue this.

 

"John?" His voice is calm, hushed. He doesn't want to startle John or cause him any anguish. But his voice turns firm as he repeats himself. “John.”.

 

John doesn't respond. At least not in the way Sherlock plans. John thrusts forward again, grips Sherlock further and caresses. Sherlock thinks he might be dying or has died.

 

_Did he not make it off the plane? Did this past year not happen?_

 

John Watson hard against his leg is the most amazing feeling he’s ever experienced. He absolutely wants, needs this to somehow be for him. In this moment he hates Mary for ever existing, hates himself for ever leaving, hates Moriarty for requiring the sacrifice, hates his brain, hates everything. In a few moments John will wake up and the horror on his face will be something Sherlock cannot stand to see. Still this has to end.

 

“John.” Sherlock says his name louder. His voice is strained with distress. John’s hand, which was caressing Sherlock’s backside rather expertly stills. John himself stills. Still he says nothing.  Sherlock is trying to figure out if John wants the dignity of pretending this didn’t happen or if he should try his level best to make a joke to ease the tension. But all he can say is his name.

 

“John?” He says it this time in question, wondering if John is fully awake.

 

John pulls back a bit, the light is low, but Sherlock can make out his eyes. As expected they are set in horror.

“I’m--” he clears his throat, voice rough with sleep. “I’m sorry.  I must've been dreaming.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock says. “It’s--It’s fine.” At least, Sherlock thinks to himself, he’ll try to make it fine. He thinks what John needs in this moment to make it better for him. He decides to ask, though he doesn’t want to ask, deciding to put John’s needs above his. “Do you-um, often, dream about...Mary?”

 

John shakes his head a bit. “No, Sherlock I-I was dreaming.”

 

“Yes, I know. It’s fine. I know you must miss her.”

 

“I do, but- I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. Trying to look in John’s eyes, but John closes his and looks away. His grip falls from Sherlock and he  lays on his back, looks up at the ceiling.

 

“Sherlock, I--” John stops to clear his throat. "I was dreaming. One moment I was awake in bed and then I dozed off. And somehow it got jumbled up. I-I dreamed that I asked and , well, you said yes and right I’m guessing that didn’t actually happen and then I kinda….Jesus I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like this. I’m sorry.”

 

Sherlock hears John speaking, but also a buzzing fills his ears, muffles John’s words almost.  Sherlock’s world falls off kilter and realigns and he can’t quite parse John’s words. It doesn’t quite make sense and Sherlock is rather sure he didn’t fall asleep himself, but perhaps he did because what John said doesn’t quite make sense in his reality.

 

“You--what?” Sherlock blurts. “What did you say?”

 

“I’m sorry. I really am. I thought I asked. I--I don’t want to force anything on you.” John takes a breath, inches further away creating a wide berth of space between the two. “We um--I’m sorry. I can uh...I can go sleep in my bed if you want.”

 

Sherlock says nothing, and he knows he should probably say something, but his brain is whirling, going around in circles, and it does not make sense.

 

_‘No, I’m not asking no.’_

 

_‘Associate.’_

 

_‘For anyone cares I’m not actually gay.’_

 

_‘We’re not a couple.’_

 

_‘What the hell are they implying?’_

 

 

“Right,” John says. He sits up “I’ll go.” He starts to shift as if he’s planning to leave.

 

Sherlock can very easily see the next moment and the next. How they’ll play out. John will leave and go upstairs to the bedroom. Sherlock will stare at the ceiling all night and wonder what happened. They’ll ignore it in the morning. They’ll ignore it forever. Eventually John will find another Sarah then another Mary. He thinks back to the letter John wrote to him short weeks ago.

 

_Sherlock,_

 

_I trusted you when I knew I shouldn’t. And you made her trust you too. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. But I can’t help but wonder if I didn’t stay in your life and let her stay too then this wouldn’t have happened. And now it’s just me and Rosie. So I can’t do this anymore. No cases. Nothing. Maybe one day we can be friends again, but for now I have to think about her and only her. And whatever our friendship was has to be placed firmly on hold._

 

_Goodbye,_

 

_John_

 

Sherlock reaches out a hand to John’s arm, moves it slowly down until he reaches John’s hand. He laces their fingers together, mimics John’s earlier motion and pulls John back down. John does goes down, but not easy and simple. Sherlock sees the tension, understands it, understands he has to say something. In this John cannot translate the world to him, Sherlock has to explain himself to John.

 

John is lying on his back looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock stares at his profile and tries to think, tries to think, tries to think.

 

“Please God,” John says. “Please say something.”

 

“Something.”

 

John huffs out a laugh which turns into a groan of frustration.

 

“Say something about what just happened. If you want to forget it I--”

 

“No,” Sherlock says. He shakes his head. _Forget?_ “No.”

 

John turns his head to look at Sherlock. Sherlock sees the question in his eye, but waits for him to speak.

 

“And?” John sighs.”Fuck. We said we'd figure it out. We'd..." John pauses again. Sherlock waits.“We said we'd get our shit together."

 

"I know." Sherlock says. At least he knows they said it. What that meant he still didn't quite understand. Are they supposed to lay bare everything before the other? He doesn’t think that’s possible. Not now...maybe ever?

 

"What if we play a game?"

 

"I'm not a child, John."

 

"I know. Just....look this isn't easy for me either."

 

"I know."

 

"So....five questions each. Yes or no kinda' thing."

 

"One."

 

"One is not enough."

 

"Three then."

 

"Fine. But I get two extra "

 

"Why do you get two extra?"

 

"Because you played dead for two years!”

 

Sherlock bites his tongue. Always this. But he understands that at least. "Fine."

 

“You start.”

 

"Do you regret it?"

 

"It?"

 

"The...thing you--we--you were just doing. The...dry hu-”

 

"Stop. Don't say it." John holds up his free hand.

 

"So you do."

 

"No, it's just that if you say 'humping’ then I won’t be able to stop laughing.” John gives a snicker and the sound eases Sherlock immeasurably.

 

"Fine just…’it’ then. Do you regret it, John?"

 

"Yes and no."

 

"It has to be one or the other."

 

"Then..." John turns his head to look at Sherlock, ensuring their eyes meet. "No."

 

Sherlock blinks and blinks as his world realigns yet again. John gives him a gentle poke with his elbow. The one on the arm where their hands are still linked.

 

"Do you have...no. Do you feel? No, I know you do. I felt it the other morning. "

 

"Oh God."

 

"I mean that could have been a biological, a dream about-- But I mean "

 

"Dear God. Will you get on with it?"

 

"Do you have those feelings...could you for someone you think?"

 

"Yes."

 

"For Irene?"

 

"No."

 

John goes quiet. Sherlock can’t interrupt. This is too tenuous for him to even consider pushing his hand.

 

"For Janine?"

 

"No. You're wasting your questions guessing names."

 

"Fine. Your turn."

 

Sherlock thinks long and hard.

 

"Did you throw out my spores that time you swore you didn't."

 

"What?"

 

"I want to know. You always said you didn't and Mrs. Hudson was at her sisters. I don’t recall throwing them out. And Mycroft hadn’t sent his cleaning minions around to check up on me for ages at that point."

 

"Sherlock, What? These questions are supposed to be about us. "

 

"This is about us. And it's a rare opportunity to confirm something I’ve long wondered."

 

"No, I didn't.” John answers firmly. Then a smile creeps on his face. “But I may have asked Mrs. Turner to do it for me when she came to water Mrs. Hudson’s plants."

 

“Mrs. Turner! Ahhh. Of course.”

 

“They were toxic, Sherlock.”

 

“Should’ve known. She would never look me in the eye.”

 

“That was probably because she thought you’d figure out she was a part-time marijuana dealer.”

 

“What?”

 

“Where do you think Mrs. Hudson gets it from? Plus she owns property in central London along with Mrs. Hudson. She also rarely leaves the house.”

 

“I can’t believe I missed that.”

 

“Yeah well you weren’t to know. I only know because she offered me some out of sympathy after you...when you di--were away.”

 

“Ahh.”

 

John begins the motion from earlier. His thumb swiping back and forth. He and Sherlock are both lying on their backs again, staring up at the ceiling….again. Avoiding again.

 

"If I were to kiss you. How would feel about...that?" John turns his head, seems to wait for Sherlock’s reaction.

 

Sherlock blinks just once and opens his mouth to respond then freezes. He turns to look at John.

 

"What happened to 'not gay'?"

 

"Mostly...well. You."

 

Sherlock’s eyes close and he breathes in this moment. He doesn’t open his eyes, but begins to speak. "I knew a few times. "

 

"Knew?"

 

"I knew when Mike brought you in the lab that day. And then over dinner at Angelos.  I know when you showed up after I said danger. When you shot a man for me.  Half a dozens of times after that of course.  I completely knew when I had to leave and play dead. When I came back and when you got married. John, I've known I was in love with you for some time now.”

 

John takes a shaky breath. He turns and his hand slowly descends to cup Sherlock’s face. He tilts it towards him and Sherlock takes the note. He opens his eyes then turns to look at John.

 

John smiles and looks into Sherlock’s eyes then speaks.  "Whatever happened to being 'married to your work'?"

 

"You," Sherlock says. His lips are pursed and beautiful around the word.

 

"I'm going to kiss you now. Okay?"

 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

Sherlock is sat in his chair texting. John is looking around 221B with trepidation, but the knowledge that once this is all fixed they’ll start something entirely new here.

 

He smiles at Sherlock.

 

“Are you going to help at all?”

 

“Of course I am, but I’m off to see my sister first.”

 

“Perfect timing in the middle of cleaning. Is this a plot to get me to do everything?”

 

“Of course not, but she may or may not hold me hostage until the place is done. Don’t worry about me. Just carry on with the cleaning and text me when you’re done.”

 

John laughs and starts to clean. Sherlock does help though then leaves much later than planned. Each moment he’s away with Eurus John worries, but Sherlock texts him before and after up until the moment he is back at John’s place and they discuss how much John got done without Sherlock and the progress Sherlock has made not only with Eurus, but with finding the Borgia pearl.

 

Molly comes over the next day while Sherlock is gone. John isn’t sure what to say to her, but she puts on a pair of gloves and starts helping. In the middle of John giving up on putting the coffee table back together and realizing they need a rounded one anyways Molly turns to him with a smile.

 

“So me and Greg are shagging now.”

 

“Oh! Well um--”

 

“I wanted to tell you just in case you or other people were worried about...things. I’m okay.”

 

John isn’t sure if he should say, but he needs to be honest with her and they’ve told no one yet.

 

“Sherlock and I are um--”

 

“I know.” She smiles then gets back to trying to piece a mug together.

 

“How do you know?” John is shocked. Would Sherlock have told her?

 

“Me and Mrs. Hudson. We kinda figured after the other day when we had Rosie...when you called.”

 

“Oh.” John thinks back to that night and how they finally said it. He smiles. “So you and Lestrade?”

 

Molly smiles and tells him all the details he does and doesn’t want to hear.

 

***

 

Sherlock finds the Borgia pearl a week later and the place is nearly done. They lay in bed that night close. He's happy and sated in a way he never thought possible, but has been putting off this conversation and trying to figure out how to say it.

 

“Thank you for the new child proof things in the flat. I appreciate it.”

 

“Well of course. If Rosie is to--”

 

“But we can’t move in now.” John blurts it out. They’ve talked. They’ve talked a lot. They know where they stand with each other, but they never explicitly discussed living arrangements when this was all said and done. And time is needed.

 

“Oh.” Sherlock says. The look on his face is painful and John just wants to kiss it away. So he does. He lays a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips and still feels a thrill that he’s allowed to do this with this man whom he loves.

 

“It’s just for a bit. For Rosie and the minder and my job and for…”

 

“Safety.”

 

“Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just --it wasn’t a few weeks ago a grenade was set off in our flat and I just need to try to get something in place first. Mycroft and me are working on security layouts and once we’re done we-”

 

Sherlock surges forward to kiss him. He didn't expect that.

 

“So you’re okay with this?”

 

“Obviously. As you said. A grenade was set off in our flat and we need to make it more secure.” Sherlock stresses the word “our” and John smiles bright. “I agree. I’ll text Mycroft to speed it up though.”

 

“Okay good.”

 

As they fall asleep John tells him about the one time things came close to happening with James Sholto and with a few others, but Sherlock is the first man he's been in love with entirely. 

 

Sherlock tells John of every time he almost told John he was in love with him.

 

They promise never to hide from one another again.

 

***

 

Irene is happy to receive the pearl and she gives Sherlock his thanks in the form of him watching her delete his number from her phone. It’s a largely symbolic act, but an important one between the two adversaries.

 

“If I could give you one bit of advice before we part ways entirely, Sherlock.”

 

“No thanks,” he says and walks towards her door, but she calls out to him anyway

 

“Protect that heart of yours.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head no, but doesn’t elaborate. He's done with that.

 

***

 

The DVD shows up and John calls him over. They watch it together in silence as Sherlock stands awkwardly and John sits tiredly, wondering if this is the final message she has for him. Wondering if another will show up each time he gets ready to move.

 

They look at each other once it finishes playing.

 

“Janine assures me this is the last,” he says.

 

John nods. He stands and takes Sherlock’s hand. He pushes the coat off Sherlock’s shoulders and ushers him to sit. Sherlock does and John in turn sits atop and straddles him. They kiss for hours on the same cushions where they finally spoke their truth. When they’re finally breathless and smiling, John remembers they must pick up Rosie. He stands and offers his hand. Sherlock takes it and they walk to fetch their daughter from Mouse.

 

***

 

Sherlock kisses John on the day he moves back in. He even allows John to chose the code for the security alarm. Then, of course, changes it when John sentimentally chooses 0129 for the day they met.

 

They eat dinner then Sherlock helps with the cleaning afterwards. He walks up stairs to put Rosie down as John finishes the last of the dishes. He kisses her on the forehead.  John walks in to see him brush back a wisp of hair. John smiles then takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him downstairs to their bedroom. He takes him to bed. It is John’s first time with a man and he’s nervous until Sherlock explains he sometimes gets instantly hard just by seeing John walk into a room.

 

“You’re lying.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Ever noticed how often I pretend you’re not even there? It’s self-preservation you see.”

 

John laughs and kisses him. He uses every tool in his arsenal to make Sherlock feel pleasure and Sherlock somehow finds new spots on John’s body which make him feel like he’s never truly understood what an orgasm was before now. They fall asleep that night and many nights after in their home.

 

***

 

They fight.

 

They scream.

 

They yell.

 

They makeup.

 

They find their way around loving each other and living the life they chose.

 

Rosie gets older.

 

She calls Sherlock papa.

 

Sherlock buys her a dog. John names it Woggie.

 

This annoys Sherlock to no end as he has suggested Gladstone.

 

Sherlock’s uni boyfriend shows up and asks for Sherlock’s help with finding his son.

 

Once the boy is found Sherlock bids Yuri goodbye and John apologises for all those years in which Sherlock had to see him with someone else.

 

Sherlock says John is an idiot because John is all Sherlock could ever want.

 

***

 

Molly and Greg get married.

 

Sherlock is once again named best man.

 

John beams as Sherlock gives his speech and brings the entire wedding party to tears as Sherlock thanks Greg for saving his life by giving him an addiction that allowed him to help others and had the added bonus of being slightly less dangerous than the alternative. Greg interrupts his speech to hug Sherlock. Molly dabs her eyes and hugs him as well.

 

John waits until everyone is busy giving best wishes to the bride and congratulating the groom to pull Sherlock to the side and tell him how incredibly sexy he looks in that suit and how he wants to do things to Sherlock while wearing it.

 

"Oh?" Sherlock cocks an eye then holds up a key to their room.

 

John grins and takes Sherlock to their room. He musses up Sherlock's suit very effectively. 

 

***

 

John asks Sherlock.  Sherlock says no.

 

Sherlock asks a week later and explains he said no because he wanted to ask and the rings he ordered hadn't arrived yet.

 

Mrs. Hudson makes all the food for the very small ceremony.

 

She and Sherlock’s mother talk at length to Harry and they all agree those boys are really quite dumb and this should have happened years ago.

 

Harry and John hug. They apologise and say they'll be more kind to each other. Harry got her 1 year chip and she thanks John for inviting her and keeping the bar dry to help her with this step.

 

She makes eyes at Janine. Sherlock says it's a rather good match. John makes Sherlock promise nothing happened between him and her. Sherlock reminds John that he is 100% gay and as soon as their sex holiday begins he will remind him of that fact in as many ways and positions possible.

 

***

 

Three years past Mary's death a package arrives with a set of maps and a coded letter. John wants to throw it away, but they agree for the sake of Rosie to figure it out. They work day and night tracking down the leads and clues. It leads them around the world twice. Rosie stays with Aunt Molly and Uncle Greg with Uncle Myc providing round the clock security.

At the end of the trail they find themselves in Prague with a gun pointed to John's head and a man demanding Sherlock reveal where Mary was hiding or else he'd pull the trigger. He doesn't believe she's dead and they have unfinished business. Sherlock says he knows nothing, but the man doesn't believe him. The man cocks the gun then Sherlock sees the world stop. He is knocked back and hits his head. Moments later he's come to, but with blood on himself and John.

 

“John? John? Are you okay? Oh God!”

 

“I'm fine. I'm fine.” John reassures him. “This is his blood. He's dead.”

 

“How?”

 

“I don't know.” They look around for the obvious sharp shooter who took the man out. Once they're back in their hotel room showered and clean they both go quiet, neither wanting to speak the possibility aloud. They decide to clear out the mini bar and order food before their plane ride back. The drinks aren't as strong as they like, but still it helps John finally loosen his tongue.

 

“It could be her,” John says. Sherlock nods. He doesn't say anything. John isn't sure what he's thinking and he needs to know. “What do you know?” 

 

“I only know what you know. And that...Well I suppose it's possible she did this because she knew she was in danger and that you and Rosie were as well. So she did it for love of you.” Sherlock takes a drink. “I can understand that.” He gives a sad smile. “If you want to return to her given the opportunity I can understand that as well.”

 

John shakes his head, he takes Sherlock's hand in his and waits for him to look at him. “Sherlock, no. We don't know who it was, but if it was her it doesn't matter. You may have not noticed, but I am desperately in love with you. I have been for some time now. I married you. I want to be with you until the day I die. Okay?”

 

Sherlock smiles. “Okay.”

 

In the end they track down a lead to a woman who is not Mary, but rather Janine. John swears to not tell Harry as long as Janine promises this is her last job.

 

“It is. Just paying back the favor for her. That man should be the last of it.”

 

She and John visit Mary's grave along with Rosie and Sherlock. They all leave a single rose for her. And bid her a final goodbye. 

 

***

 

Five years gone and John gets a call from a publisher in New York. They want to turn his blog into a book. He agrees and spends the next few months picking out his and Sherlock's favorite cases. In bed one night he muses to Sherlock about which case to end the book with.

 

Sherlock suggests the first case where John realised he loved Sherlock.

 

John sees this for the clever ruse that it is and he knows Sherlock just wants to hear John tell him he loved him from the start.

 

So John does. He recounts their first meeting to Sherlock. Sherlock falls asleep hearing it. John falls asleep telling it.

 

They both dream of that first meeting and wake up the next morning with a smile.

 

 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are not just love they also drive my procrastinating, ridiculous self into actually finishing things. Thank you for reading.


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